


I'm not calling you a liar (just don't lie to me)

by TheWrongKindOfPC



Series: slightly less magical older-sibling-figures in like [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/M, Gen, Phone Calls & Telephones, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWrongKindOfPC/pseuds/TheWrongKindOfPC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Declan meets someone he can't lie to and Orla distracts herself from how ridiculous Blue's life is by playing mind games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm not calling you a liar (just don't lie to me)

**Author's Note:**

> If mere hadn't been p. into this idea when I suggested it on twitter that one time, I probably would not have kept thinking about it nearly so long.

It’s at the hospital, when Declan first sees Orla again—though _again_ feels like it’s almost a misleading term, it’s not like he ever knew her _well_ before. They went to a few of the same parties, though, before he graduated, and they hooked up that one time, and after, he’d said, “I’ll call you,” and she’d laughed at him and replied, “Maybe you would if I gave you my number, but I doubt it,” and then she’d left.

Now, she’s lounging outside the hospital, and she looks, at first glance, like there’s no place in the world she’d be more comfortable or, more likely, like there’s no setting on earth that could make her _un_ comfortable. The only thing that gives her away is the cigarette she’s twirling jerkily between her fingers—it should look graceful and casual, Declan can see enough to know that, but somehow it’s where all of her tension has landed, twisted around bony brown fingers and long magenta nails.

“If I’m remembering correctly, you’re the type who’s got a light,” she says, apparently to Declan, without turning around

Declan may have thought about her once or twice since then—there was something about the way she’d laughed at him that night, about her certainty that he’d been lying that, even though she’d been right, had kind of rankled. Remembering her doesn’t mean he’d been expecting to see her sitting on the cement ledge surrounding an ugly, scragly tree outside the Henrietta general hospital at one in the morning, though, and especially not after he’s had the call he’d been afraid of for months, years—the late night call looking for Ronan Lynch’s next of kin, because there’s been an accident.

He also doesn't happen to have a light—he’s always been more of a social smoker, and barely even that since his father’s death—but he’s got Ronan’s jacket thrown over his arm along with his own, because he’s been worried enough tonight that he’s actually willing to cart the little shit’s ruined, bloody jacket away, he’s so full of the relief that most of the blood on it isn’t Ronan’s. He’s even almost relieved the asshole won’t leave the hospital with him, since Declan has no idea what he’d actually be able to say to him, after all of this. Ronan’s jacket is sure to have a lighter, though—if there’s ever a kid who will always have a way of setting things on fire on him, it’s Declan’s dumbass kid brother, and Declan isn't sure he’s ready to be alone right now, is even less sure he’s ready to see Matthew without spewing all of the venom about Ronan he’s been hiding badly for months, for years.

That’s what’s going through his mind as he digs through Ronan’s pocket, locates a heavy metal lighter with a lid that flips, then shuffles over and offers it to her. “You’re the snake’s brother,” she observes, which is strange, but then, she’s not wrong, he guesses, and what about tonight hasn't been strange? There had been a moment, standing beside Dick Gansey’s hospital bed, when Declan had almost thought that Ronan might hug him, but he’d reached in the other direction instead, tightening a hand around the scholarship kid’s wrist.

Instead of focusing on Ronan and his weirdness and his damage and his stupidity another second, he asks her, “How did you know?”

She snorts, wriggles her fingers in his direction in what he thinks is supposed to be a witchy way, smoke curling from the cigarette in one hand and catching on the stars in the clear night above them, nose ring glinting in the light from the nearby hospital window, and says, “Psychic, remember? Also, you look just like him.”

Declan knows there’s a family resemblance, but it’s the first part of the sentence that’s more interesting to him, and not just because it means he can think about something besides Ronan, though that certainly doesn't hurt. He doesn't know that he ever knew that about her enough to remember it, though.

It makes sense, in a strange way. He’d known, vaguely, about the house full of psychics at the edge of town, but only in the same way that he’d known better than to order anything claiming to be seafood at Nino’s, or that the cop who covered the southeast end of town on week nights could be convinced to let certain charges go if given the right incentive—he’d been aware of it, but it wasn’t something that came up much in his particular social world. 

He thinks of Orla that night, though, and how she’d been wild in the firelight, reckless in a way even the other townie girls curious about Aglionby parties hadn’t been. Declan hadn’t actually liked that, particularly—something in it had reminded him of his father’s goading grin, the way it had always dared him to be _more_ in a way he’d never wanted to or known how to be. Someone had dared _her_ , though, and, laughing, she’d backed up far enough to take a running leap over the hot coals near the end of the night, and had landed somewhere in the vicinity of Declan’s lap, all fire-hot bared skin and sharp, sparkling eyes, and that had been the kind of challenge he’d known how to meet. Now, he can see that he’d been right to be uneasy, and right to think of his father. She slips the lighter back into his hand without looking at him, gazing up at the sky, fingers warm and quick, and it seems obvious that she’s touched with some kind of magic.

Now, in the Henrietta dark, “You never gave me your number,” he observes more than accuses, more than happy for the distraction.

“Would you have used it if I had?” she asks, eyebrow raised, glancing at him sidelong and he could lie to her, knows this situation practically begs him to lie to her, knows that he’d probably be better at lying than at telling her the truth. 

“Probably not,” he admits.

Orla nods, and of course she was expecting it. Lying probably doesn't work too well with psychics anyway, and the thought almost feels like relief.

“See? So I was right,” she tells him. “Because if I’d given it to you, and you’d blown me off, I would have had to have my pride, and I wouldn’t get to tell you that you’re going to drive me home now.”

“I am?” Declan doesn’t object, exactly—if she needs a ride, gallantry says he’d have offered anyway—but he’s not used to getting that kind of demand.

Orla nods. “Blue is staying with her raven boy, and Maura’s staying with Blue, so so is my ride, and the fact that you’re standing out here with me tells me that you’ve figured out you’re not wanted, too, so you might as well drive me back.”

The thing is, she’s not wrong, and Ronan isn't the only Lynch brother who feels like he can breathe better when he’s driving—he’s just the only one who’s an _idiot_ about it. It’s a weird night, and it might as well get weirder, so Declan just gestures in the direction of his car and says, “Well, after you, then.”

He’s not expecting Orla to take the outstretched hand, turn it over, and peer at his palm like she’s sizing it up, and when she does, he doesn't expect her to listen when she opens her mouth to comment and he asks her, “please don’t.”

“I’ve already looked,” she tells him, and it sounds less like an objection and more like a warning, but that’s fine, Declan already knew that.

“I just can’t hear it right now,” he says. He’s not sure if he believes she can see anything real anyway, but he also doesn't think there’s anything she could say that it would actually help to hear, either.

“Okay,” Orla agrees and strides towards his car instead. She laughs quietly when he holds the passenger-side door open, but Declan doesn't care.

…

“You could give me your number this time,” Declan says as he pulls up into the driveway after a short, quiet ride, and he doesn’t know why he does it. He thinks of Ashley, but he doesn't take it back.

Orla looks at him dubiously, and he thinks he’s managed to surprise her, which is probably impressive, with a psychic. “I could,” she agrees. She doesn't say anything else, but she also doesn't get out of the car yet.

“So will you?”

“Anyone can call my house if they’re willing to pay a dollar thirty a minute,” Orla says, crooked grin that says she knows exactly how many dirty jokes another guy could make here, but he’s already set the tone for the night by holding her car door, and she thinks that’s ridiculous, but that doesn’t mean she won’t use it—it says an awful lot for one look, enough that Declan has to wonder if psychic tendencies are catching. No, though, she’s just got a very expressive face.

As he’s digesting this, she goes on, “Of course, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be the one who answers.”

“And I thought you said you were a psychic.”

Orla dimples at him. “Oh, did I say I _can’t_ guarantee it? I meant to say ‘won’t.’”

…

It wasn’t a yes, and she also hadn’t given him the number, but it also wasn’t a no, and it’s an easy number to look up. Still, he doesn’t even try, or really think of trying, or want to, for a few weeks, and might not have at all if it weren’t for a really spectacularly awful Tuesday.

He’s marked down on an essay he should have done better on, and Ashley walks by just as he’s trying to charm the TA into a shot at a revision based on the most recent readings, and takes what she sees in exactly the wrong way—or possibly the right way, actually, since it’s not like Declan wouldn't have followed through on what his eyes were saying if it looked like it was going to be necessary.

Ashley’s pretty cool, she gives him a chance to explain himself—normally that would be more than enough for him, and she knows it, Declan can see it in her face, the way she’s expecting to have her anger and objections soothed over and explained away, but the notes all land wrong today, and Ashley knows what she’s worth, if she’s going to be lied to, it had better be done _competently_ , so she cuts him loose.

And then Matthew doesn’t answer his phone.

This is the worst thing, not because Declan can’t reach him and is concerned, but because the lack of response means Declan knows exactly where Matthew is, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Ronan has taken their mother somewhere, and now instead of all of them losing both parents, Declan is the only one who’s lost her. He knows it, and he’d say something, except that he’s afraid it’s just the beginning of the end—after he loses her, he’ll lose Matthew, and then he’ll have no one. Declan isn't sure how he’ll bear that, so he tries not to think about it too hard.

That’s the state of mind he’s in when he googles psychics in Henrietta, though. He’s faintly surprised to find that the number he’s looking for has Yelp reviews. Most of them are overwhelmingly positive. He understands why when a voice answers the phone with a “Hello?” and then, before he can even open his mouth to reply, calls out, “Orla! Phone for you!”

A moment later, a slightly more familiar voice picks up, says, “And how can I help _you_ today?” in a drawling tone that could almost be called a purr.

Declan is not entirely sure why he called, why he would even _want_ to involve himself in something so tawdry, and, worse, probably true. When he doesn’t answer, Orla makes a _hmmm_ sound, then says, “Oh. It’s you. Thought I’d scared you off.”

“I don’t scare easy,” Declan says, forcing a chuckle. “Why? Did you wish you had?”

“You don’t, do you?” Orla said, sounding like she was basing this assessment on much more information than she should actually have, though Declan isn’t sure whether that’s a psychic thing, or if she just always thinks she knows best—or if one of those spawns the other. She ignores his question, though, and after a moment, Declan clears his throat and says, “Well, aren’t you going to tell me my fortune?”

“Oh, is that how you want to play it?” Orla asks.

“Just want to make sure I’m getting my money’s worth,” Declan says, flinching even as he does over how crude the joke sounds—he really shouldn't even be trying to talk to people right now, he never has this much trouble making his words do what he wants them to.

“Taking your rain-check from last time?” Orla asks him, and Declan finds himself nodding as if she can see him.

Maybe she can, because after that, when she answers, her voice has a remoteness to it as she tells him, “He won’t do it—the snake. He won't do that thing you’re afraid of. You’re right that he probably won't forgive you for who you are, or for who he is, but he doesn't want to do _that_ to you, either.”

It’s vague enough that Declan feels like he should scoff, but it also feels like such a direct address to everything he’s been thinking about that he almost can't bear to, and if the fairy stories his father used to like to read to him when he was young, before Ronan was old enough to join them, are any kind of true, showing any kind of scorn, even in self defense, probably isn't a good idea either.

Instead, he takes a breath, then lets it out after a second, when he realizes there’s nothing he particularly wants to use it to say. At that, Orla laughs, goes on, “Sorry, not sure there’s much I can give you about the breakup, though. You probably deserved that one.”

“You’re probably right,” Declan admits, partially because she is, and partially because it’s almost a relief, saying things out loud that are so stupidly, obviously true.

When he hangs up the phone, Declan realizes no one actually charged him for the reading.


End file.
